“This is it, Captain,” called Elvis from the front of the cab, snapping Jack awake. He yawned and stretched, gazing sleepily out the window at the city streets. People in suits and sunglasses and fancy shoes, cell-phones to their ears, hustled up and down the sidewalks, satchels, bags and briefcases slung over their shoulders or gripped tightly in their hands. Jack patted the pack of cigarettes in his shirt pocket. He took a smoke out and lit it. The cab in front of them pulled away from the curb, and Elvis slid his battered red and white car into the slot.
“What do I owe you?” Jack asked, counting out bills.
“Please, Captain. I’m insulted,” Elvis said. “It was on my way.”
“On your way?” Jack laughed. Elvis ran up and down Ocean Avenue, back and forth between the hotels and the boardwalk. New Amsterdam was over an hour out of his way. He reached forty dollars over the seat. “We couldn’t be more out of your way,” he said. Elvis waved him off.
“Call me when the big lobsters come in and we’ll call it even,” the cab driver said. “You need a ride back?”
“No thanks,” Jack said, stepping out of the cab and leaning in the door. “I’m gonna swing by Sam’s office after this is over and surprise her. And it’s a deal, the biggest one of the lot is all yours. Bring Priscilla.”
“Will do,” Elvis said. “Good luck.” He gave Jack the thumbs-up and pulled back out into the traffic.
Jack took a last drag of his cigarette, crushed it out underneath his sandal and peered up at the office building in front of him. He took a deep breath, darted across the sidewalk and shoved his way into the revolving door. Two security guards stopped him when he emerged into the marble-floored lobby and directed him to the information desk. Jack insisted he wasn’t lost and produced the letter from Roswell. He signed in as Mickey Mantle while security called Roswell’s office to confirm Jack’s appointment. They
pointed him to the elevators and reminded him there was, of course, no smoking in the building.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Jack said, shaking hands with each of the three security officers. “Have a good day and keep the faith,” he said.
Riding the elevator, Jack smirked at the other passengers. His Aloha shirt
managed to clash with the neutral suits and dresses that surrounded him. As they passed the ninth floor he placed a cigarette between his lips and let it dangle there, pretending to search his pockets for his lighter. His fellow passengers edged away from him, but no one said a word. For those few minutes he was having a good time. His nerves buzzed to life on the fourteenth floor, as he stepped from the elevator into the hall outside Roswell’s office. He put the cigarette back in the pack and pulled open the door.
Roswell’s secretary looked up from her laptop as the door clicked shut behind Jack. She was a very young woman. Her close-cropped brown hair framed a pretty face. Jack noticed her skin had the orange tinge of a tanning salon. He felt her beaming smile land on him like a spotlight.
Jack nearly fell over. That again. “I guess so,” he said, trying to smile back. There was no matching or deflecting the wattage directed at him, and he gave up. He pulled the letter from his back pocket. “I have an appointment to see Mr. Roswell,” he said,
embarrassed. Like there’d be another reason for me to be here, he thought. Maybe I really am lost.
“Of course you do,” she said. “Have a seat and I’ll let Mr. Roswell know you’re here.” She pressed a button on the phone on her desk. “Excuse me, sir. Mr. Donovan is here.”
“Thank you, Daisy. Can you ask him to give me a couple of minutes?” “Sure. No problem,” Jack said.
Daisy beamed across the room at him. “Have a seat and he’ll be with you in a moment. Can I get you a cup of coffee?”
“Sure,” Jack said. “Black, extra sugar. Thank you.”
Jack settled into the black leather couch against the wall and watched as Daisy made his coffee. As she moved, strolling across the room, reaching up for the mug, lifting the full coffeepot, her sleeveless blouse and short skirt revealed the well-muscled arms and strong thighs of an athlete, probably a runner. Jack smiled. He thought of Samantha, the way she looked in one of her racing suits, maybe walking across the beach, her snorkeling gear dangling from her hand. He loved the way women wore muscle,
Samantha especially. Muscle didn’t make them squared-off and bulky like it did men; it made women sleek and graceful. You only really saw it when they moved, a ripple here or there, like a breeze rippling a glassy sea. Jack lit a cigarette and looked around the office.
Tasteful if anti-septic – clamshell walls, charcoal carpet, black furniture. It had the distinct air of a new arrival trying to give the impression of having been around awhile. Jack fingered the leaves of the short palm at the end of the couch. It was fake. Daisy appeared in front of him, holding his coffee and wearing a frown.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Donovan,” she said, “there’s no smoking in this building.” Jack looked at the cigarette as if he had just noticed it himself.
“Sorry about that.” He searched for a place to put it out. Devoid of ideas, he took one last drag and crushed the cigarette out in the fake dirt of the planter. Daisy handed him his coffee, which he accepted silently. Wearing a forced grin, Daisy fished the butt out of the pot with her nails, nodded and walked back to her desk. She dropped the butt in the trashcan. Jack stared down into his steaming coffee.
“Would you ask him to come in now?” he heard Roswell say.
When Jack entered the office, Roswell was standing behind a large oak desk, hands in his pockets. He wore a dark gray suit, a white shirt and a multi-colored tie. Some kind of abstract print in reds, yellows and greens. Stacks of files covered the desk, a laptop perched atop one of them. Jack wondered if his life was in one of those files, or maybe sequestered in the vast memory of the small computer. Plaques and framed documents adorned the walls, awards, Jack figured, for making rich people richer. He remembered he was in this office because he had something Roswell wanted. He recalled Samantha saying she liked this guy, and that he was, for all intents and purposes, her boss. Jack extended his hand across the desk. “Nice to finally meet you,” he said.
“Likewise,” Roswell said, shaking Jack’s hand. He gestured at the chair beside Jack. “Please, sit down.”
Jack sat, cradling his coffee against his chest. Roswell lifted stray files off his chair, stared vaguely at the piles on the desk, then dropped the files on the floor.
“Thank you for coming all the way out here, Mr. Donovan,” he said, “on what I’m sure is a busy afternoon for you and Mr. Valentine. As you can see, I’m chained to this desk.”
“No worries,” Jack said, “but can we please cool it with the Mr. Donovan stuff? It makes me feel like I’m in trouble. It’s Jack. What can I do for you?”
Roswell eased into his chair. “As you know, my employer is establishing himself on St. Anne. The two of you are neighbors and of course there’s your involvement with Samantha, who now works for us.”
Jack raised an eyebrow at the use of his girlfriend’s first name. No way she lets him call her that, he thought.
“Your point?” Jack asked.
“Mr. Michaels is always on the lookout for an opportunity. His moving to your part of the island has provided that. It also provides a great opportunity for you. My point is that you have something Mr. Michaels wants, and he has assigned me the task of acquiring it.”
Jack raised up on the arms of the chair, blowing air. “I hate to disappoint you, Mr. Roswell,” he said, waving a hand at the stacks of files, “and I don’t want to make
but my house is absolutely, positively not for sale. To anyone. At any price. We’ve been through this.”
Roswell laughed. “Look, man to man, I’m as tired of these negotiations as you are, but, in my professional capacity - ”
“There are no negotiations,” Jack said. “There never were. I thought I made that clear to you.”
Roswell shrugged. “In my professional capacity, I’ve got my orders. Mr. Michaels insists on buying your bungalow, or to be more specific, the property it’s on. We did a lot of research before we got here: on the Monroe House, on the west coast, on you. We know what that stretch of beach is worth. More importantly, we know what it could be worth, the money it could produce, if it were utilized properly. Mr. Michaels has told me you can name your price.”
Jack ran his tongue over his front teeth, drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. So, here’s a wad of cash, Jack. Pack it in and move along. “What do I have to do to convince you guys I’m not selling?” Jack said. “And what makes you think you can call me in here, wave a big fat check in my face, and get me to give up my home? Because that’s what you’re asking. That bungalow’s not some investment property I inherited from a crazy uncle. It’s not some condo I’m looking to turn for a profit. It’s my home, a home I’m perfectly happy in, that I worked really hard, for a really long time to get. It’s not for sale.”
“Please, Jack,” Roswell said, “calm down and try not to take offense. No one’s asking you leave the island, or even the coast. Just that tiny piece of the beach. Nobody’s questioning how hard you work. Martin respects your place as one of the coast’s most
successful businessmen.” Roswell raised his hands. “We know it’s difficult to move out of one place and get settled in another. Mr. Michaels is going through it right now. We wouldn’t have asked you to leave one house without ensuring you could find another. Daisy can have a list of available properties for you by Monday. Not that you’d have to leave that soon.”
Roswell abruptly stopped. Jack figured his face must have betrayed him. Roswell smiled. “Don’t forget, I’m a lawyer. I’d be happy to help you get re-settled, negotiate a good deal for you. I can cut a check for you this afternoon,” he said. “Say, half a million?”
Jack struggled to remain calm, to keep his head clear, as he listened. Boy, he and Harry could really do some things for the Lone Palm with a chunk of that money. Re- outfit the whole kitchen, replace all that old, leaky plumbing. Weather-proof the place so they would’ve have to sweat and pray through another hurricane season. They needed bigger bathrooms. The waitresses needed raises. He wished Harry had come with him, tried to imagine what his partner would say.
Roswell was offering far more money than Jack’s slice of beach was worth, ridiculously more money than Jack knew he’d ever make running a beach bar. That’s exactly what the offer was, Jack thought, ridiculous. Who offers five times what a piece of property is worth, the first time they make an offer? Finally, Jack’s head did start to clear. That’s exactly what Harry would call the whole thing, he thought. Fucking ridiculous. The offer is so ridiculous because it’s not for the beach, Jack thought. It’s so ridiculous because it’s for me. Martin wasn’t offering half a million for the few hundred yards of sand and shells that fronted his house. He’s offering half a million for me. For
me and for the seven years I’ve put into getting my life exactly the way I want it. He felt the blood rushing to the back of his neck again. Felt his temper kicking in, coiling in his stomach.
Roswell leaned forward. “You’re quiet, Jack. Anything I can do to help? You can use the phone if you like, call your partner and consult with him on this.” Jack didn’t answer, didn’t look up. Roswell stood. “I’ll leave you alone for a few minutes,” he said, stepping out from behind his desk. Jack stopped him with a raised hand then waved Roswell back to his desk.
“I don’t need a few minutes,” Jack said. “Again, I decline your offer, with emphasis and prejudice.”
Roswell frowned. “Is it not enough money?”
Jack laughed. “It’s not about the money,” he said. “It’s never been about money.” Roswell shrugged, raised his hands to show his confusion. “I don’t get it,” he said. “Of course you don’t,” Jack said. “Your kind never do.” He stood and set his coffee on the desk. “But I’m here to help you. You see, it’s insulting to be thought of as a someone walking around with a price tag on his forehead. Maybe that’s what you’re used to seeing, what you see when you look at people. But, some people? That’s not how they are, no matter how many zeroes you line up in front of them.” Jack dropped back into his seat and re-claimed his coffee. “I sense a potential oversight in your research.”
“My kind?” Roswell repeated, blinking. He gathered himself. “Look, Jack, I’m not the one who’s misunderstanding the situation. Your sense of romance is compelling, but even you have to be aware of the world around you. True, St. Anne has proven uncannily conservative when it comes to progress but that is soon to end. There’s simply
too much money out there. The flood of money and investments from the States and from Europe is unstoppable. Everybody’s putting everything up for sale. Why not get in on that? So many of your sister islands, populated with people just like you, Jack, have been smart enough to get their share while they still have a say in things. We’re offering you a chance to reap a huge profit on the inevitable. You may not be, but St. Anne’s wearing a for sale sign. Don’t be too blind to see it.”
“I’m sorry,” Jack interrupted. “Is this where I have my heartbreaking moment of disillusion? I was thinking about my hammock and lost you for a second.”
“Be as flippant as you want. Like I need any more proof I’m dealing with an amateur. When you lay back in that hammock with a head full of margaritas, you’ll think about what I said. And you’ll know I’m right. I can’t guarantee my employer will be as generous, or as cordial, the next time around.”
“Look, tough guy,” Jack said, “you can run this doom monger trip as long and as hard as you want, but you can’t change the fact that I own that house and I’ll burn it to the ground before I sell it to the likes of you and your employer. Dress it up however you want, but this is a case of me having something and you wanting it. Don’t keep wanting what you can’t have, it’s frustrating. Pass that along to your boss. This meeting is over.”
Jack walked out, slamming the door behind him. Roswell scowled at the empty chair in front of him. Martin was going to be unhappy. Delivering the bad news was going to be unpleasant. This meeting was, however, was hardly going to be the end of things. Roswell walked over to the bar and mixed himself another martini. Fine, Mr. Donovan, have it your way.
As she piloted her Jeep through the hills, the top off, the rushing air cooling as the neared the beach, Samantha kept taking her eyes off the road, trying to sneak looks at Jack’s profile. At her office, he’d shrugged at her inquiries about the meeting, changing the subject when she pushed, avoiding her eyes. He was tough to read when he brooded, but she couldn’t stop herself from trying. He was so cute when lost in thought. His eyes darkened and a deep crease appeared between his eyebrows. She was dying to know the details, and she felt for him, but she couldn’t help visiting the pleasant memories of when they’d first started dating, of when, realizing how attracted she was to him, she crossed her fingers hoping there was a brain beneath those thick, brown curls.
Samantha brought her knees up to the steering wheel, re-securing her ponytail with both hands. “Come on, Jack, talk to me,” she said. “What’s going on in there?”
Jack glanced at the speedometer. Its needle caressed the eighty-mile-per-hour mark. His eyes moved from Samantha’s knees to the oncoming bend in the road.
“I was wondering if I had spent the last day of my life running around the city